


Love Stories and the Fragile State of Mind

by thelogicoftaste



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dystopian World, Gratuitous amount of violence, M/M, Mild torture, So much fucking angst like oh my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:37:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/thelogicoftaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s when Stiles sees it, a blurred shape that he immediately identifies as masculine by the width of the shoulders and the running gait. It traces the same path he had undertaken not seconds before. Jumping and evading over the very same hurdles that Stiles himself had to dodge, with a fluidity and efficiency that instils a pang of cold, unadulterated fear right in the centre of his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Stories and the Fragile State of Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [houseofthecunning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofthecunning/gifts).



> I can almost guarantee that this fic is not going to be what you think it will be. It takes a lot of twists and turns this one, it's a coalescence of sorts and it has very many clues hidden within it as to what is actually going on. It's an AU, kind of, but how it comes to be that becomes quite clear in the fic itself so read on! It's not too complicated I shouldn't think, but by all means - take your own conclusions from it. Tbf, I just wanted some fucking angst, I don't even know.   
> The bit at the beginning is part of something I wrote last year in my 'heartbroken-so-I'll-write-a-shit-ton-of-angsty-poetry-phase' so I thought it appropriate for the sheer angst of this fic. Seriously it's angsty.  
> Also, Chris Argent is actually kind of evil. Oh my god. And Victoria is alive too, for my own nefarious purposes, heh.  
> I'm English so, forgive my British-isms.  
> Warnings for violence and mild torture. And so much fucking ANGST (oh my god!).  
> For trigger warnings please have look at the end notes (but be warned as there'll be a MAJOR spoiler!) 
> 
> Of course, Teen Wolf does not belong to me (sad as it may be) it belongs to the original creator Jeff Davis, and all the affiliates of MTV, all of whom created this wonderful series - thanks be to you, Ladies and Gents :)

 

_My heart is you, take it apart and I'm lost._

_-_

The process of his awakening is a gradual one; he comes to unhurriedly and with his body aching and stiff. The first thing that he is aware of is the air hanging over him in a damp swathe and he feels as though he is paralysed.

He struggles then, as much as he can in his position. He is lying on his side, his legs tucked up towards his chest in a loose foetal position and his hands are tied behind his back. He figures he’s been there for a while because the thick rope binding him is digging into the soft skin of his wrists; he can feel where the skin is rubbed raw and bruised. That is when he hears it, a low whine. Almost feral: wounded, desperate and desolate. It surprises him that it is coming from his own throat. He stills as soon as he notices, remembering that he is in unknown territory and for all he knows he could be being watched. He tries to stop all sound: he doesn’t want to show any more weakness than he already has.

Stiles opens his eyes for the first time in what feels like forever, they’re sticky with sleep and he has to force them open. A burst of bright, yellow white light instantly beams directly into his pupils, dilating them much too quickly and much too painfully. He closes his eyes immediately, wincing in on himself with the sharp ache of it.

The room he is in is succinct and bare. The concrete floor and plain brick walls are unassuming, but there is a heavy wooden door directly in front of him with a bold brass doorknob and an intricate lock plate directly underneath. The room is bared of any furniture and there is a single light fixed on the ceiling but there is a subtle sense of grandeur that pervades the whole place, as if it has been stripped of everything that once gave it character. Someone went to great lengths to ensure his discomfort and the thought sends a shiver up his spine that has him momentarily flounder on the concrete floor.

Painstakingly, he tries to get motion back to each part of his body, wiggling his toes first and then his fingers and rolling each of his bone joints and stretching his limbs. He tries to get up, rolling himself upwards until he is resting his body weight on his calves, his ass nestled on the heels of his feet. Stiles brings one leg up until he is kneeling but before he can do anything more there is a rush of blood blazing through his veins and his breath huffs out harshly. He’s vibrating with the effort of staying upright, his blood is buzzing and fizzing through his body, he is simultaneously numb and electrified, all his limbs are tingling with the satiation of being re-inhabited with blood, and it creates such a relentless _ache_. 

It's a while until he feels he has enough energy to stand, and then Stiles lifts himself up by gaining leverage from his kneeling position. He sways a little, even though he has both feet planted firmly on the ground, his mind has catapulting and leaving him reeling, his eyes watering and feeling as if he might vomit. He shakes his head, his whole being feels as if it’s caked with blood and mud and God knows what else. He can feel himself now, covered in thin layer of dried sweat, the smell of fatigue on his breath and the faint beginnings of dreadful hygiene. 

He must have been out of it for a while he figures but he lifts his chin and stands his ground, staring defiantly at the door, hands still tied behind his back. He decidedly tries to push away any thoughts of Derek and thoughts of his father, and the memories of what had happened just before he shorted out because he doesn't think he can handle it.

Despite himself, though, he remembers the fleeting sense of comfort that the motel they were staying in offered him hours before. How the large, white-faced building on the outskirts of the Beacon County felt as it heaved up above his head. Even inside the room, with its cream coloured walls and heavy curtains, puffs of frosted air were visible with each of his exhales, but he supposed he could expect nothing less in the coldness of a cheap motel room in the middle of the night. None of that, absolutely nothing at all mattered because being ensconced in bed with Derek and keeping so closely entwined with his body had kept the shivers at bay.

Stiles remembers the taste of Derek’s mouth as they had crashed into that room, laughing and brimming with myrrh. How happy they had been at having this one day away from the pack. Stiles couldn’t stop saying it, _the pack_ , because that’s what they were now: a pack. Integrated in togetherness, even after all the bullshit they'd suffered through. So they had run away for the day to make love and to celebrate and just _be_.

Stiles had crawled on to Derek’s lap, fitting his thumbs in the hollows beneath his cheekbones to press phantom kisses to his mouth. He had tipped his head to the right and sighed into Derek’s mouth, tasting peppermint tea and honey cake. Derek had taken his time in preparing him this time, and Stiles had bitten the pillow beneath his head with gasping breaths as Derek slid his fingers into him in slow, pulsating shifts. Stiles was shivering then as he pressed his knees and chest into the mattress, effervescent tremors chasing the salted trails of sweat that ran down his body.

He had closed his eyes tightly as Derek pushed into him, his hands searing _love_ and _want_ into Stiles’ skin. Derek had pulled Stiles upright, so that he could press his back to Derek’s chest; he had wrapped his arms around Stiles’ belly and rolled his hips in slow undulating waves, creating a kind of coalescence between them as Stiles gripped Derek’s forearms. He brought them together again and again and _again_ , he had panted against Stiles’ neck and growled in his ear and kissed his temple as the sound of skin against skin reverberated in the privacy of their room.

He remembers Derek stilling his hips, pushing up as far into Stiles as he possibly could and just _halting_.

Just. Pausing.

Stiles could feel him in every fibre of his being as he fluttered around Derek’s cock, as they breathed in that cool air of night. The world was brought to a sudden, sharp clarity and Stiles could feel every single inch of Derek, he could see every singular particle of dust swirling in the lamplight in front of him, _feel_ the heat of Derek searing and sinking into his skin. It proved too much and he had thrown his head back against Derek’s shoulder, eyes shut and mouth open and he had  _keened_. He shook and shattered and damn near disintegrated as he came, and Derek was right there with him. He felt as if the particles of his existence, of his and Derek’s existence, had split and burst into a thousand new lives, brimming with love and affection.

Later he had pressed lazy, lasting kisses over Derek’s mouth as Derek ran a soothing hand up and down the wide expanse of his back. Stiles had pushed his chin against Derek’s chest to gaze at him.

“You think I’m wonderful?” he had asked, teasing, smiling up at Derek.

“No,” Derek had huffed with a roll of his eyes, “I said that you were tolerable.”

Stiles grinned brightly, the corners of his eyes squishing together as he laughed softly, surging up to press soft kisses to Derek's lips, “I distinctly remember you saying that I was wonderful, _exquisite_ even.”

Derek had shaken his head at Stiles, a fond smile ghosting his expression, “You always did have a wild imagination Stiles.” He brought his other hand to drag across Stiles’ bottom lip. “You could probably create a whole entire world for yourself if you wanted.”

Stiles had rolled his eyes, slumping on top of Derek's heat as he laughed, “Why would I ever do that?”

He remembers the way that Derek had gracefully shrugged one shoulder, sadness colouring his expression. “People do when they’re lonely, or hurt or when they're grieving. To escape.”

Stiles remembers his heart seizing up at that. He and Derek never really talked about the death, nor of how he had coped with the aftermath. Stiles remembers he and Derek appraising each other, how he had waited ten distinct heartbeats before kissing Derek firmly, pouring his infinite love for him into the kiss and he remembers promising to himself to never allow him to retreat into that catatonic state again.

But he can’t now, because he’s stuck in this unknown room and he has no idea where Derek is, or whether he’s even _alive_. He refuses to even touch upon that particular thought; his heart can’t actually bear it. They didn’t see the hunters coming, they never saw them coming and now they are torn apart. Stiles can feel the distance between them as surely as he can feel the air around him.

He may have been standing there for an hour or three, it is impossible to tell. He is sure that he looks like a scruffier, poorer version of himself, between the migraine firmly implanted behind his eyelids and the hunger pangs tearing at his insides it is a wonder he is still upright. There is a slight tremor running through his body but he is determined to stand his ground. 

-

The door is still closed a long while later, long after his body has stiffened with his posture and Stiles himself is bored to eternity and back. They are determined to break him down; either that or they have left him here to rot. He refuses to believe that though, because it’s irrational. He _knows_ it is: they went to too much trouble to get him here and yet that doesn’t stop the cold slither of doubt and desperation snaking its way up his spine.

After what genuinely seems like forever Stiles hears heavy footfalls. Footfalls that get exponentially stronger as the seconds tick by and he wills his rapid heart to still. He braces himself, straightening up to his full length, remembering to add a touch of adolescent arrogance to his expression, they have taken him, sure, but they sure as hell haven’t _broken_ him.

The footsteps fall silent and he can see a dark shadow beneath the crack of the door, and he knows that someone is hovering behind the door. A scare tactic, he realises but that doesn’t stop his heart feeling like it is about to leap out of his throat and his being aware of the blood pumping through his veins.

There is a jingling of keys and he swallows, though his throat is ragged and dry. He hears the key fitting into the lock, turning with a smooth precision and a distinct _click_ ; and Stiles has to force his legs to stay straight, unabashed terror floods his system, his breathing is laboured and his fingers are curled and clenching into the palms of his hands. He bites his bottom lip, feeling the hard tremors coursing through him.

The door swings open with an easy, silent arch. There is nobody in the doorway though, and Stiles blinks, blinks again, and a then third time before he finally claps eyes on his assailant.

His heart jolts, Christopher Argent stands tall before him.

He’s never seen him like this; he’s almost other worldly, with his dark coloured hair and a cold flatness to his clear blue eyes. Looking confident and graceful; he puts a whole new tandem of fear in Stiles.

“Ah," He says. "Up and at ‘em, right?”

His voice is gruff and profound and his smirk drips with sarcasm and perceived superiority. He shuts the door firmly and strides over to him with wide, self-assured steps. He doesn’t loom over him; Stiles knows that, they’re probably the around the same height, but he might as well have been for his entirely terrifying disposition.

Stiles eyes him carefully, before his eyes slide to the door. He has already scoured every inch of the room and he found no possibility for escape: no windows, no vents, and no fireplace. The only chance at freedom he has is the door which Chris has just opened.

Chris smiles broadly, lifting an eyebrow in a comically exaggerated movement of amusement without even bothering to turn and follow Stiles’ gaze; “I wouldn’t bother,” He grins. “You’re not getting out of here, Stiles.”

“Are you sure about that?” His own voice is strange to his ears, the first time he’s used it a long while. His defiance seems to surprise the other, Stiles sees the mild ripple of the emotion wash over his face, an infinitesimal twitch of the corner of his mouth and this comforts Stiles a little bit because at least they are not anticipating everything about him.

They stare at each other for a long, long time. Though Stiles’ inborn necessity to poke and prod at everything and everyone and the itching need to provoke scratches at the edges of his self-preservation and eventually makes him cave.

“Where is he?" Stiles demands, and God, how he _hates_ the tell-tale crackle of fear in his voice. "Where’s Derek?”

Chris completely ignores Stiles and instead steps towards him, tipping his head to the side in a near inquisitive manner. “Are you hungry, Stiles?”

Stiles appraises him; he seems too nonchalant to not be dangerous, chest heaving lightly. But then something seems to click in his mind and he decides to change, or more adequately gain, his tactics. He takes a page from Chris, tipping his chin in defiance. He figures that by putting ona false bravado it might stand him in good stead, or buy him some time at the very least, “Worried about me?”

A smile slides languorously on to the other man’s face, “Now, wouldn’t that be counterproductive?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s my job,” Chris smiles bitterly, making a cursory, almost facetious bow. “Hunter, at your service.”

“Why me?” Stiles asks. “I’m human, you don't _hunt_ me.”

Chris watches him for a moment, terrifyingly composed in temperament and he doesn’t avert his gaze from Stiles’. “ _Yet_  you still run with wolves.”

His voice is low and supple, a rumble that starts at the back of his throat and echoes around the silent room. Stiles feels like the inside of his skin is burning with fear, there is an ominous feeling at the pit of his stomach; a dull ache that threatens to overtake his entire body.

“You have a code.”

“No code, Stiles,” he answers easily, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Not anymore. This is war. And you and your _Derek?_ You tripped and fell right into my arms. It seemed rude not to take you up on your offer. You really should be more careful where you go in the future.”

Stiles lifts his eyebrows high into his forehead, “Oh! So I do have a future! I was starting to wonder, _let me tell you._ I’ll make sure to remember that next time. Now, you said the door was over there?” Stiles begins walking only to be stopped by Chris as he takes a slow, measured step in front of him.

“Cute.” He remarks.

“Yeah, well you’re still my kidnapper. Compliments don’t give you privileges to my ass, buddy.”

At that, all pretence of politesse vanishes on Chris’ face and in its place comes a cold, hard gaze and a curl of his lip.

“Watch your _mouth_ when you speak to me, kid," he bites out. Syllables crashing and curling through his teeth. "You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

Stiles rakes his eyes over the other man and his face morphs into a sneer that Chris does not take well to. With his voice saturated in sarcasm, he replies, “I’m dealing with an overcompensating bastard. I know _exactly_ who you are Argent.”

Chris’ hand darts out and snakes around his throat, quicker than a lightening bolt. Fingers curl around the pale skin of Stiles’ throat, capturing his startled gasp and Chris pulls him in close until his sternum is snug against the man’s forearm, close enough to him that Stiles can feel the heat rolling from his body.

Chris lifts him up until Stiles is just barely balancing on the balls of his feet; forcing Stiles to tip his head back so as to be able to keep breathing. Chris’ thumb finds Stiles’ startled pulse and hovers above it, lightly grazing over it. Stiles’ breath seizes for a brief moment before it comes back in short, terrified pants. Stiles watches Chris face from his vantage point; he sees the curve of his lips as they begin shaping to the form of words as Chris counts his pulse and all Stiles can think of is how he is going to die here, alone and terrified.

… _two hundred and thirty eight, two hundred and thirty nine, two hundred and forty, two hundred and forty one_ …

Chris is stronger than he looks, he holds Stiles as if it’s absolutely nothing at all and when his hand tightens, quick and sharp, Stiles is sure that Chris can feel each ridge of his trachea as his breath fails him. Stiles really doesn’t want to die through suffocation, he doesn’t really want to die at all but Chris is still holding Stiles, with power over his mortality. He flicks his eyes towards Stiles, spitting out his words, “I can feel your heart beating so fast. You’re not so potent now, huh, Stiles?”

“Go-. Go _fuck_ yourself,” he gasps, eyes stinging with both the slight lack of oxygen and the intense hatred of Chris.

Chris drops him, so abruptly that Stiles’ knees sag weakly in relief but he soon straightens them, stumbling his way back to distance himself from Chris, wracked with coughs and wheezing breaths. The adrenaline that is coursing through him is probably the only thing keeping him from a panic attack.

“Don’t you dare speak to me like that ever again.” Chris seethes.

Stiles inhales deep and full, several times before his mind stills from the dizziness, tears smarting his eyes. He's still half-way bent at the waist, “What do you want from me?”

“What is it to you?” Chris answers without pause, saccharine smile gracing his lips. “Worried I might kill you?”

“If you wanted to kill me you would have already,” Stiles' voice is slow and his throat battered; instead of sounding defiant he sounds weary.

Chris steps forward, closing the distance between them until there is barely a breath left linking the two of them and Stiles stills. Chris locks eyes with Stiles, tilting his head to the side until the very tip of his nose brushes against Stiles cheekbone, Stiles flinches and immediately, desperately, steps back but Chris grabs his upper arm and pulls him in close, his preternatural strength not allowing any sense of escape.

“Maybe the show is just beginning,” he says, his lips brushing against the shell of Stiles’ ear. “Perhaps what I’d like to do is make sure you are fully awake before I peel the skin from your bones, Stiles, before I pull you limb from limb and make you regret the day you were born.”

He smiles at Stiles and it makes his skin crawl in consternation.

Chris lets him go, an altogether smugness emanating from him, and Stiles stumbles back in his haste to get away from him. He regains his footing, stands his ground and looks Chris square in the eyes because Stiles is too stupidly stubborn to admit defeat.

“So what, this is what you’re teaching Allison? Huh? Training her to be a _murderer_? Getting her ready for a life of torturing people, _people_ Chris, just for shits? Is that it?” Stiles seethes even though his body is wracked with anguish and exhaustion and Chris’ face turns foul, just as Stiles knew he would, because Allison will always be the Argent's weakness. Chris narrows his eyes and takes a step towards him.

“I hold power over your life; I suggest you have a little respect.”

“I suggest you suck my dick.” Stiles retorts.

He blanches, and Stiles instantly regrets every single thing he's said. The words were out of his mouth before he had even thought them through and he belatedly damns his affinity, his innate talent, for pissing people off.

He is flying through the air before the thought even finishes developing. His body impacts the bricks harshly before he falls, rather unceremoniously, to the ground.

He whines in pain, he tries to muffle the sound but in doing so he splits his lip, his head smashing painfully on the ground, his hands are still tied uselessly behind his back. He groans, a sound that seems to come from the very core of him as pain pulsates through his body, he is sure that he has dislocated his right shoulder. The new pain mingles with the one he’d been pushing down these past few hours, or days, whatever.

Stiles breathes harshly through his mouth, his cheek is practically glued to the ground and he can feel every facet of the floor, it's uncomfortable and dusty and the particles springing up, making him cough and hurt all over again.

He has never in his life hurt more than he has in this one instant. Bubbles of light burst behind his eyelids: disgustingly dizzying. Once again, he opens his eyes in careful increments until the room is in his sights once again. He doesn’t think he will ever move again, he doesn’t particularly want to try, so he breathes, or tries to at any rate.

Chris stands transfixed in the same spot he was before Stiles had insulted him; he places his foot back on the ground from where it was outstretched in the air, fresh from kicking Stiles in the stomach. His face is personified fury; he is breathing profoundly, his chest noticeably heaving. Stiles really,  _really_ shouldn’t have said that.

“I may not be about to kill you but I can still hurt you,” his voice is deep, rough and barely controlled, with a wave of anger, disbelief and a fleeting sense of penitence boiling just beneath the surface. "It'd do you well to remember that."

Nervousness mixes and culminates in a cold mass in the pit of Stiles’ stomach as Chris relaxes his stance and stalks towards him, pulls him roughly by the elbow, of the left hand, he gives thanks for small mercies, and heaves him up until he is leaning heavily against the wall.

He watches him from half-lidded eyes, ravaged and pained, as he brings out a small, silver-tipped, bronze-gilded knife from a holster secured to his left leg. Stiles flinches as the blade catches the light of the overhead lamp and Chris stills just for a moment, with the knife dwarfed in the palm of his right hand and a peculiar look on his face, and if Stiles had been lucid he would perhaps even more alarmed by it.

He reaches behind Stiles and Stiles tenses against him fearing that he is going to be finally dying at the hands of an Argent; through all his bravado Stiles is sure he has never been more scared than he is in this very moment.

It's impossible, utterly impossible, to describe the rush of relief that floods Stiles as the knife saws through the thick rope binding his hands. 

The pressure eases off his shoulder and off of his wrists, Chris’ hands are cool as they scrutinise his wrists, before placing them carefully in Stiles' lap. He shifts, sliding an arm underneath Stiles’ knees, and another around his waist and heaving upwards. Stiles’ head lolls feebly on his shoulder, his face uncomfortably close to Chris’ neck as he breathes hot air into his skin but he concentrates on nothing other than the steady sound of his own heart, to distance himself from the whirlwind of pain that is cruelly using his body and the malicious person currently carrying him. Stiles has no vigour left at all.

His dead weight in Chris’ arms doesn’t seem to faze the man at all; he barely glances at Stiles before walking towards the door.

-

When Chris deposits him down on the floor it is in a wide, dusty and bare room. An old abandoned warehouse of some kind, a single room, filled with metal and glass and cement. Stiles feels the bitter cold of the cement floor bite at his skin even through his clothing and he shivers unwillingly. He pulls himself up on his knees, it takes him a humiliating amount of time, as he bites backs gasps and groans and he uses his hands to manoeuvre himself. His wrists are weak, pain throbs through his muscle and each movement seems to tear off a part of his soul in payment. He does it finally, he’s shaking but he’s on his knees. He gasps once more, tastes trepidation on his tongue and forces himself to look up.

There are people stood all around him, standing in the shadows with their hands clasped behind their backs and their legs shoulder-width apart. An army of hunters, he surmises. He turns his head, his eyes sliding from one the other silently. He feels so powerless, they all look to be older than his own years and they loom over his sprawling mass on the floor, surrounding him on all sides.

Chris himself takes a step back, standing by Stiles’ right shoulder in the same precise military posture of his peers watching Stiles quietly whilst he struggles to take breath after breath. Stiles can see purple smoke billowing in the rancid air of the room, curling around the black-clothed figures scattered across the room like galaxies across the wide expanse of the universe. Stiles sees now the lone chair gilded in burning white gold and silver. It’s placed high on top of a stacked mountain of stairs, a dark black carpet rolls down the middle of the grey stone steps. It looks like an Incan temple and exudes its power and its savagery. 

Chris drags Stiles by the collar of his shirt, across the bare floor and up the carpeted stone steps. The pain of it all scratches at Stiles’ mind, as the floor burns his skin. He cries and he yells and he scratches at Chris’ grasp but the man is relentless in his task. By the time that they reach the top, Stiles is exhausted and hurt and bleeding. He slumps into himself, his breath catching on stilted hiccoughs of pain. 

Chris’ vicious gaze is trained solely on Stiles as he dumps him into the chair, he can feel the cold metal of the manacles attached to each arm of the chair cling to his skin. He curls his lip and snarls half heartedly at Chris but the man only watches him amusedly before Stiles feels the sharp bite of the back of Chris’ hand rake across his cheek. He didn’t even see it coming. He cries out, but a frenzy of pain explodes in his head and he, well, he _shatters_.

Stiles knows he is mumbling to himself as he tries to ignore the pain thrumming lazily beneath his skin, deep in the marrow of his bones, murmuring half-asked questions and desperate supplications to _please just let me go_.

“Stiles,” Chris says, the syllables rolling over his tongue as he tastes the name, leaning close to regard Stiles. Stiles freezes, a thread of sharp fear coils with anger in the base of his throat. “Stiles Stilinski.”

The soft rasp of Gerard’s bark of laughter scrapes against Stiles’ sanity. He hadn't even realised that the old man was in the vicinity. “Of all the people to capture, we get the one and only, Stiles Stilinski.”

The way that Chris looks at him then, like he’s found the secret to everlasting life creates a deep void of fear in Stiles. He’s tired of being scared; he can’t remember what it feels like to not be incapacitated by fear creating a long hot pulse in his veins.  “Oh, we are going to have some fun, Stiles.”

Chris had changed so much. Stiles can hardly recognise the man standing before him. This was someone else altogether, this was hell and fire and brimstone amassed and captured in the skin of the late Chris Argent.

-

Stiles doesn’t remember the next few hours, he doesn’t know anything beyond pain and hurt and he slips in and out of consciousness. He can still feel the sting of shallow cuts placed haphazardly across his neck, his arms, his face, the blade slicing across him, easy like air. He feels as though he’s caked with blood. But beyond that he just can’t.

He’s breathing heavily slumped where he is on the chair.

He catches parts of Chris’ speech but he doesn’t really comprehend what he is saying, his brain is sluggish and malfunctioning. He hears him preach about the savagery of werewolves, hears him talking about _setting an example_ , he sees him turn to Stiles with a sneer and announcing that using _the Alpha’s fucktoy_ as bait is the best way to lure the whole pack in, he hears him talking of the fate he has in store for _his pack._

But Stiles won't take that, not his pack, _never_ his pack. So he struggles, snarling and thrashing, threatening as loudly and as ferociously as any wolf that ever lived. There are jeers and lewd comments from the hunters, watching in amusement as the boy wolf tries in vain to escape his bonds, but then there’s a sharp crack of something, a whip or a cane, whooshing through the air and Stiles goes out cold.

When he resurfaces, he’s alone, his manacles are undone and he can feel a cold breeze of curling in from the door hanging open on the other side of the room. Stiles’ mind is still stuck on the fact that they haven’t killed him, that he has a chance to _escape_.

His body thrums with an instinct and a need to protect himself, he doesn't have time to consider whether this is a trap. His body is making the bravest attempt at moving, a zing of energy bubbling underneath his skin always urging him to do _something_ , and he can feel the adrenaline seeping into his skin and flooding his system with a renewed, temporary vitality.

-

Stiles is running. Running as fast as his legs can take him. His feet pound on the considerably soggy floor of the forest. The stitch on the left side of his abdomen pains him but he perseveres through it, there's a steady constant of adrenaline coursing through him, propelling him on even as his body screams with fatigue.

He sends out a grateful thanks to as many deities he can think of for being clad head to toe in black, he can easily  blend into the night; weaving in and out of the thick trees. He wishes that he had something, anything to defend himself with but he can’t afford to dedicate any more brain energy to anything other than the task at hand: to escape.

He breathes in through his nose, sharp and fast filling his lungs with barely enough oxygen, it hurts like hell but he knows this is for the best, less energy in respiration means more energy in propelling his weakening limbs. He keeps his head up, eyes focused on what’s in front of him, the last thing he needs now is to tumble to the floor like clichéd kids in stupid horror films.

He had no choice but to run into the dense darkness of the forest, the unpaved road that led in the other direction seemed far too exposed for his liking. So he ran in blindly, without pausing to assess the situation. He doesn't even know which part of the forest he's in, closer to the outer edge rather than the middle he guesses going by the density of the trees and the length of time he's been running. It's cold, but not as severe as the winters that he’d grown up accustomed to. 

He hears nothing behind him but he doesn’t let that fool him, the past few months have trained Stiles to be astute and particularly wary of anything that he can’t sense. He regulates his breathing, trying to keep as silent as he possibly can, willing his eyes to dilate further and his ears to hear more.

He can’t die now, not now.

He grits his teeth and surges forward once more, he can’t keep this up forever there must be someplace, _somewhere_  that he can be safe.

Stiles knows that he has been running a long time by now but for the life of him he can’t estimate an approximate time, the only thing he is certain of is the blood pounding through his body, the lactic acid burning a searing path through his veins and the desperate need to get away.

That’s when Stiles sees it, a blurred shape that he immediately identifies as masculine by the width of the shoulders and the running gait. It traces the same path he had undertaken not seconds before. Jumping and evading over the very same hurdles that Stiles himself had to dodge, with a fluidity and efficiency that instils a pang of cold, unadulterated fear right in the centre of his heart. Stiles is not above fear, not anymore, he has seen things and done things in the past few months that no ordinary human could imagine. Things that he buries deeply in the recesses of his brain, he doesn’t want to pause and think about them, lest his imagination conjure up new fallacies to haunt him. What his life had become, how hungry he’d been for the satiation of his goal. He doubled over in agony and disgust every time his mind even hovered close to those memories.

He looks back again a few minutes later and the figure looms ever closer, it is gaining fast.  _“It’s definitely human,”_ he thinks,  _“Or a human based thing.”_  

A small mercy, because he might have a chance of escaping the attacker. Not defeat him; obviously, he is in no state to fight, but maybe to escape him. His fate is be sealed if it is anything other than human.

He's getting clumsy though; he can’t hear anything save for the relentless blood pounding in his head. Between that and the loud huffs of air and he is now taking he almost wishes he was a superhuman being, just to have a decent chance at survival. He belatedly realises that he is down on three of his senses: sight, hearing and smell. 

He can’t smell anything because of the thick air currently invading his nostrils, and he has to rely on purely physiological reactions and that's when he _feels_ it. The tingle at the very base of his spine that that travels up, up,  _up_  until it stands the hairs on the back of his neck.

He’s behind him.

As his hands cut through the air at his side to gain momentum it brushes against the other’s stomach, the contact startles Stiles and he tries to scramble away, but his hand is grabbed.

Fear now convulses through his body as steady and as sure as the thought that he is going to fight to the death. But the man behind him isn’t pulling him down or clutching at him. If anything, the man speeds up until they’re running side by side and then he’s in front of Stiles pulling harshly on his hand; he stumbles a little, but he doesn’t fall.

“Come on!” The man rasps at him. 

 _He’s helping me?_   Stiles doesn’t understand, he’s dizzy and deoxygenated and just plain tired.

He doesn’t know if he can do this for much longer. He chances a look to the left, where he is holding firmly to his hand. Stiles can’t properly see the man’s profiled face; the moon is partially hidden behind sparse March clouds, and provides only a dismal amount of light. What he can see, is the deep gash by his temple and the dried blood down the side of his face. He sees his eyelashes and the firm set of his mouth, and then he flicks his pale eyes towards Stiles.

 _Derek_.

He is nearly delirious with relief, faltering dangerously by Derek’s side. Their attackers are momentarily forgotten as his mind overloads: _“He’s alive. Oh my god, he’s alive. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”_

He looks at Stiles then, his eyes expressing the same relief he feels. He doesn’t say anything but it doesn’t matter because Stiles can read what he means in his expression as clear as day. It is a look that says “I love you” and “I will keep you safe”, but Stiles’ rationality is back.  This isn’t time for a passionate reuniting. If they even so much as indulge in the momentary greatness of each other’s assured existence, they may not cherish it for very long.

“Hurry, Stiles,” Derek tells him. _“Hurry.”_

They don’t see it; they could never have anticipated it, not in their gratefulness for the ill-perceived safety civilisation a few feet in front of them. Just short of the edge lies a barrier, it is an eighteen foot tall wall that is umpteen feet wide, curving around the top and surrounding them on all sides, effectively trapping them in the forest no matter which way they turned.

It is a chameleonic wall that lures its prey into a false sense of security, conjured up by a bitter man with a taste for vengeance and an allegiance to the Argents. The Argents would let them in but there was no way they were letting them out.

Stiles and Derek jump upon a convenient flat log, jumping high into the air before they expediently careen straight into the wall, both of them at full speed, instantly knocked unconscious. Their hands break apart as their bodies crush into it, plastered against the wall a few feet above the ground as if suspended in mid air, like flies on a window.

It starts out as very a small pinprick of light that steadily grows and grows, enveloping the bodies in a brilliant white light. In a thrill of a moment, a kaleidoscope of coloured hexagons explode from the point of impact reaching out, seemingly, from the centre of the blissful light outwards, each hexagon lights up the next and so on and so forth until eventually it lights up every individual shape in the dome.

It's an excellent display of bright workmanship that shines bright and full, illuminating the entrapped forest. It is a near faultless facsimile of a bee colony’s hive, perfected with a touch of science. 

The two victims are driven backwards, soaring through the air in a strange, cruel form; their bodies limp and beaten. They fall seamlessly, quite as if in slow motion, in sync into the waiting arms of the ground, all around them Argent beings appear as the arched wall lights up with its daunting, colourful brightness.

It was planned, it was _all_ planned.

Nobody had been chasing them, of course, they’d had been running around and around in circles in the forest. 

Oh, how they liked watching them panic. How they liked _controlling_ them; like dolls in a play house.

But as Gerard got bored with the imaginary chase, he directed them together by using chaste sounds and their fear, first to each other and then into the waiting presence of his wall.

There are half a dozen servants, in floor length black suede cloaks that glint in the moonlight; they stand in a semi-circle each facing Stiles and Derek, assessing and analysing their surroundings before watching the targets float towards the floor, lying on their stomachs, even in insentient states, they drift towards each other. Their attackers’ cloaks are lined with the lightest of purple silks that sheaths their skin with a slight unnatural hue. They all stand there in identical grace.

Before too long the four Argents appear; Chris, Gerard, Kate, Victoria, with the same floor length cloaks, looking like something out of a fairytale, their cloaks exhibiting a dark silk lining the colour of sumptuous burgundy, the hems running with molten silver. They complete the circle on the other side and they all begin to chant in ominous tones, all of them, in a foreign tongue that spears into the night air and disintegrates the wall that had caught their victims.

Gerard has them now, and he can see their future mapped out in front of him, a linear series of events that finally, _finally_ , allows his plan to fall into place.

It's time to begin again.

-

Stiles blinks his eyes open, his whole body hurts, a dull pain that thuds over and over and over in pulsating waves of nausea. He hears voices coalescing high into the dark of the night; he’s shivering, his clothes are torn and he’s bloodied.

He tries to lift his face from the ground and the first thing that he sees, when his vision finally clears, is Derek's pale eyes watching him intently. He’s on his stomach too, lying a few feet from Stiles on the dirty ground.

The gash on his head is bleeding again, and he’s shaking on the floor; his eyes never leave Stiles, even as he presses his lips together in an attempt to stop the hurt whimpers and his harsh breaths from alerting their attackers of their consciousness. Derek looks terrified and Stiles has inkling that his expression harbours the same fear.

They’re in the middle of this circle, they’re scared and looking far younger than their ages and yet the expression in their eyes as they look at one another shows a pain that transcends it all. Stiles instinctively reaches his hand towards Derek, clutches his hand and whispers that he loves him.

"It's over," Derek smiles, his teeth are red with blood and his teeth chatter and clack against each other in his tremors. "It's finally finishing."

Stiles doesn't understand, he doesn't have the highest hopes of understanding but he stares at Derek. He watches him steadily as Derek holds on tighter to Stiles, even as his consciousness drips from him with the viscosity of scarlet blood.

“We're finishing," he gasps, wet and laboured. "Stiles, we're-. _Stiles_."

Derek had once told Stiles that he would die a thousand deaths for him. Through it all, the ridiculous pain and the anguish and all he has been through, Stiles realises that for Derek, he would too.

Stiles loses Derek to unconsciousness, his eyes are closed and his body is unresponsive.

“Derek,” his throat is hurt and raw but he refuses to stop shaking Derek’s hand, desperation makes his heart seizes up because he doesn’t know if Derek is dead.

“No. _No,_  Wake up. Derek? _Wake up_. Please,” he whispers, fierce and terrified. Continually shaking his hand. “Please d-don’t, Derek, please don't leave me.”

Stiles is almost oblivious to it all; he notices about a second too late that the forest is quiet. There is no humming, there is no chanting. He looks up with fear pounding at his ribcage, gripping Derek’s hand in his. Their attackers have all pulled their hoods down, and it’s a foolish sort of irony that when they look the most human is when they have committed the most atrocious, inhumane act.

They’re not looking at him as he expected though, they’re all facing the barrier. Still standing in a circle, it’s eerie how they all move as one. Looking off into the distance, Stiles and Derek are momentarily forgotten in the middle. Stiles is a little relieved and he grips his love’s hand tighter, and watches the distance too.

That’s when hears it. A heavy ominous sound like the hooves of war horses on the sodden battlefield. But they're footsteps, human footsteps, thundering through the forest. There are dozens of them: shouting, hollering for justice, policemen in uniforms as black as tar, heavy guns holstered close to their bodies, their faces twisted in anger and determination.

And then they press their triggers, a collective animal spreading out evenly as they let the bronze bullets fly rife through the air. The sound is deafening, a roaring monster that eats at Stiles, it's the sound of bullets shells and casings tinkering to the forest ground like an armada of stardust and the relentless chime of metal upon metal jarring his ear.

The flying bullets bury themselves deeply into their attackers, they fall to the ground in a cloud of silk and cotton, they drop like petals caught in the heavy rainfall of bullets.

The four Argents scatter in the wind, heading deep into the forest; Stiles can almost hear the whisper of fabric as they tear off their cloaks and run, he can almost hear the flutter of the materials in the wind as they float to the ground, he hears the thundering rush of feet as the police force takes off after them.

Stiles can see a solitary figure running up to him; he drops to his knees and pulls Stiles carefully to him and he cries. Stiles finally, _finally_ lets his eyes close as he buries his head in the crook of his father’s neck.

He found him.

He found him and the Argents are falling.

-

When Stiles wakes up the ground is moving and he knows precisely where he is. He can clearly distinguish the clamour of small wheels against tiles. Everything is a dull white and holds a horrid sterility. All above him are strangers in the same white dullness and decorum afforded to a hospital. God knows he's seen it all before.

His father’s head peeks out from above him looking worried and haggard, and he realises that he is holding his hand, with that comes his last memory of Derek in the forest. His heart clenches painfully and his eyes flutter closed.

He can’t feel any physical pain but he hurts anyway. As he fights the mounting need to succumb to sleep he hears broken whispers of conversation floating around him.

He hears the words, ‘dysfunction’ and ‘breakdown’ and ‘mentality’ but he doesn’t understand how that's going to help him.

All that Stiles wants is Derek, but the only thing he is given is a deep, morphine-sweet sleep.

-

The process of his awakening is a gradual one; he comes to unhurriedly and with his body aching and stiff and the first thing that he is aware of is the hand holding his. It’s different from his father’s, less calloused and younger and it belongs to his love.

He opens his eyes then, and takes a moment to become accustomed to the bright artificial light of the room, in complete contrast to the darkened sky outside. It’s a sparse room, private but filled with ‘get well’ and ‘we miss you’ cards. Roses and Lilacs fill his bedside table but another vase, with no note or card attached, sits close to his bed and blooms large bulbous blue and purple buds. Stiles’ blankets are tucked neatly around him and his childhood quilt lies neatly on top of him, filling his room with the sweet aroma of honey and ginger.

He finally turns his head to Derek, and he smiles faintly. Derek’s eyes are the same pale wonders that he remembers and h mouth parts in a wide smile, even though it looks like it pains him to do so. With his free hand Derek presses a thumb to Stiles’ cheekbone before bending low to press a lingering kiss on his lips.

“Hey,” he whispers against Stiles’ lips, he says it quitely, sweetly, like it's sacred, pressing their foreheads together as if to assure himself of Stiles’ existence.

“Hey,” Stiles’ voice is raspy and low. Derek leans back to grab the pitcher of water standing a little away from him. He pours a cup and grabs a straw, pressing Stiles to the bed and hissing him “No, no, no. Don’t get up, don't get up,” before he presses the straw to his lips.

Stiles gulps down the water like a man parched, his mind throbs against the inside of his skull, he closes his eyes tightly as Derek grabs his hand again and re-settles in his chair, rubbing mindless circles on the inside of Stiles’ palm.

They stay quiet a moment, and Stiles watches Derek. He seems fidgety, glancing over to the window and then to the door and to Stiles and back again. He seems to be vibrating inside his skin, his eyes are large and the remnants of their whole ordeal is making itself known in the discolouration beneath Derek’s eyes, the bruises littering his body and the deep indent between his brows.

Stiles tugs on his hand a little, “Hey. We’re okay, Derek. We got out.”

Derek stands once more, pulling himself closer to Stiles, hovering above him and brushing his thumb along his temple, he smiles sadly, “Yeah, we did, because of you. You saved us.”

“Everyone got out?” Stiles asks after a moment, feeling a little wonderstruck.

Derek nods, his eyes welling up with unshed tears and presses his forehead to Stiles’. “We’ve all gotten out. We’re all safe. You did this Stiles, you released us.”

Stiles feels his own throat closing up, his eyes are wet with feeling as he gazes into Derek’s. “Everyone’s free?”

“Everyone’s free.” Derek repeats, nodding.

An instant later he looks over his shoulder and out of the window anxiously as if he’s searching for something.

“What’s wrong,” Stiles asks a little desperately, because nothing ever settles enough for something not to be wrong anymore. “Derek? What’s going on?”

Derek turns back to Stiles, rakes his gaze over his face as if trying to commit it to memory, his eyes are red-rimmed and wide. He kisses Stiles, desperately, but still careful of Stiles' injuries, he pulls his face closer to him as he bites at his lips, making Stiles gasp. He licks the seam of Stiles’ open lips before tasting the inside of his mouth, sweeping his tongue against Stiles’ and moaning breathlessly against his mouth. He sucks and bites at Stiles’ mouth, soothing Stiles’ whimpers with his tongue as they pant together. Derek licks at the corner of Stiles’ mouth and then peppers sweet, chaste kisses on his face.

When he pulls back, Stiles is mesmerised by Derek’s eyes, he stares at them as Derek’s tears begin to fall, quick and awkward, like he hasn't cried in a century.

“I love you so much, Stiles,” Derek whispers fiercely, “You saved us. You saved _me_ and I will always love you for that, do you understand?”

He holds Stiles’ head, stares deeply into his eyes even as he blinks away his tears. “Tell me you understand,” he demands, “Stiles. Tell me.”

Stiles feels a knot of worry unfurl in his chest, it whips around and lashes at his insides and he begins to cry too, feeling the same hurt as Derek. He grasps Derek’s hands where they are braced against his head and tells him he understands, tells him that he loves him more than anything else in the world and Derek cries harder at that.

His body is doubled over Stiles, his eyes shut tight in misery and despair. “I’m so sorry, Stiles. I am so, so sorry.”

And Stiles doesn’t understand the grief that’s marking his face, turning it into a caricature of Derek. But Stiles cries too and he kisses Derek trying to reassure him but he can’t stop asking, “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong, Derek.”

Derek whispers apologies and words of love in the air shared between them. "You have Scott," Derek assures, repeating over and over, "You'll always have Scott. Always."

Stiles nods dumbly but Derek kisses him and says “I’d die a thousand deaths for you, you know that right?”

And Stiles doesn’t understand why Derek is saying it like that, why his eyes are so sad and why he’s gripping Stiles like his life depends on it. Stiles stares at him, his brown eyes wide and scared. He gulps down the fear crawling up his throat and asks, “Why are you saying it like this is goodbye?”

Derek doesn’t say anything at all, he cries all the more harder, burying his head in Stiles' neck, searing “I love you” into his skin over and over and over again.

And this time Stiles understands.

Stiles grips Derek’s shoulders, pressing him all the more closer and his head is stuck on a loop, he can’t let Derek leave. He won’t. He sobs, wracking sobs that shake his entire being and he cradles Derek’s head.

“No. _No_ , Derek. You can’t leave me. _Derek,_ ” he whispers. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

Stiles' fingers are numb with how hard he's holding on to Derek. He howls in his despair, kissing Derek’s face and begging him not to go.

Derek holds Stiles too, crying pitifully as he tells him _“I’m sorry Stiles,”_ and _"You'll have Scott, please. Stiles. Please."_ He presses a burning kiss to Stiles’ mouth, confessing, “I love you, and you made me so alive. I love you, okay?”

And then in a second he is torn from Stiles’ grip, his hand lifting Stiles’ feeble ones from their grip on him as he rushes over to the window, turning the latch, he opens it and jumps onto the sill in one swift movement.

The night is so dark it's black, curls of purple fog floating aimlessly through the sky, and the opened window allows for the fresh night breeze to reach Stiles as he is contorted on the hospital bed, weak and lethargic and desperately crying out for Derek.

Derek looks back to Stiles, his eyes are sorrowful and his mouth turned down and tight as he tries to fight off his sadness. The air smells of lemongrass and a sharp cold as Derek locks eyes with him.

He doesn’t say anything but his expression says it all anyway. Clear as day. It is a look that speaks of love and anguish and pain. He smiles weakly at Stiles, his eyes glint a magnetic, acid red and he heaves off into the night.

Stiles' body makes one final push after Derek and he almost thinks he can make it before screeching, grating pain tears through his brain. A brilliant light blinds him and his heart convulses. He opens his mouth wide as he cries to gulp down oxygen, his eyes flutter closed as he shakes apart on that small, indistinct hospital bed. The pain wrecks his body and he shakes and he trembles.

And then, there is ... nothing.

Just. Nothing.

Stiles wonders fleetingly if this is what it feels like to die.

-

This time when he awakens, there is a machine beeping loudly next to him. A turn of his head shows that it's his life machine, beeping regularly with the beat of his heart.

There is a hand ensconced in his, seeping warmth into his palm. Stiles knows without a doubt that it isn’t Derek and his heart lurches at that. He turns over to his father and sees the anxious expression displayed on his face.

The Sheriff, still in uniform, looks like he hasn’t slept in days. There is faint stubble shadowing his face and he has faint lines running alongside the wrinkles in his face. Stiles smiles weakly and his father pulls his hand up and drops a kiss on his knuckles, before smiling back.

“Hey kiddo,” he says softly. “You've been out like a light for days, you had me worried there for a second.”

“Sorry,” Stiles whispers and winces when he remembers Derek, his eyes dart past the Sheriff and to the back window, firmly shut.

His dad follows his gaze, to where Stiles is staring with a sorrowful intensity and then he turns to face his son worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles’ mouth curves unfamiliarly around the syllables of Derek’s name as it tumbles out of his mouth, like he hasn’t said it in forever. He watches his father’s face turn from apprehensive to confused and back again.

His mouth works a little before he asks, “Derek?” with a frown heavily lining his face.

“Yes,” Stiles says and he can feel the tears beginning to sting his eyes. His heart hurts so much he can’t bear it. “ _Derek_ , Derek Hale. He was here and now he’s gone, dad. And I- I don’t. I don't know what’s _happened_ to him!”

The Sheriff looks worried, stroking Stiles’ face and shushing him gently as his eyes keep darting over the machine as the beeping begins to sound faster and faster.

“You have to find him,” Stiles cries desperately. “Please find him, dad. The Argents took him too and now he’s gone, and you, you have to get him back. I don’t know exactly how long I’ve been out but he can’t have gone far. Please, dad. I _love_ him. Just bring him back to me.”

His father looks a little distant, alternately mouthing the words ‘Argent’ and ‘Hale’ over and over, until it clicks and his expression falls into understanding.

“Oh, Stiles!” The Sheriff sighs disconsolately, face crumpling as he heaves a great sob against his son, bringing his head closer to him and cradling it as he kisses his son’s temple.

The machine’s incessant beeps grow closer and closer together, beeping radically and it sets of an alarm in the nurse’s office down the hall.

They rush over, calling the doctor and they prepare the sedatives.

The Sheriff hugs his son to his chest and cries “It’s not _real_. Oh god, son, it was never real.”

Stiles’ mind jars against that, his head swims and he balks against his father. He doesn’t understand.

“Don’t say that. Why would you say that?” he pulls away from his father staring at him incredulously, pushing away his father's searching hands. "Why wold you say that?"

But his father is shaking his head, gripping sorrowfully at Stiles’ with tears gathering in his eyes, the lines of his face stand in stark contrast against the ashen colour of his skin, he grits his teeth and he bites out, “How long Stiles? How long has this been happening to you?”

“What are you talking about? Stop saying that!” Stiles screeches, “Dad! _Stop that!_  We're wasting time, you have to find him! You have to find him for me.”

“Don’t you _get_ it,” The Sheriff stares at Stiles, shaking him a little bit in his misery, he grasps his son’s head and stares into his eyes. “Don’t you get it yet? There was never anyone here, son, there is no _Derek_. There never has been, they’re dead. The Hales, they all died years ago. Every single one of them. _It isn’t real,_ Stiles. Whatever world you’ve created, it was never real.”

The door opens with a loud crash and a quarter dozen of the medical team rush in, preparing to restrain and sedate Stiles but he takes no notice, he’s staring unbelievably at the Sheriff.

It’s like his whole life is crumbling around his very self as he stares at his father. He thinks of everything that has happened, the werewolves, hunters, alpha pack, all of the lies, all of the sneaking around, the _bodies_ stacking up around him like dominoes.

It wasn't real. 

_It wasn't real._

He jolts when the nurses touch him and that’s when he thrashes.

He clings to his father, hands scrablling to keep a hold of the Sheriff, the man kissing his son's head, like butterfly kisses will make him better.

Stiles screams in despair; he screams and he screams and he _screams_ , until throat gives up and his eyes dry out.

Those in the neighbouring rooms all sit in solemn silence listening to the crazed boy losing his heart and his sanity as his father whispers desperately. “Stiles. I’m so sorry, it was never real, it was never real, it was never real.”

Stiles screams his refusal, he sobs it, with great heaving breaths that rattle his chest; he denies it, he denies it _vehemently_ but it’s already too late.

He sees it now, the faces of his friends: Allison, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Jackson. He sees his mom. But not Scott, never Scott. He thinks he should be greatful, but it's hard to be when he can see their faces fade to dust; and he sees exactly how he constructed them. From faces of strangers he caught only a glimpse of, shadows in the crowds. He sees their voices fade out into silence; the memories spent together shying away into one long creation stemming from his mind.

His mind hurts so, so much and Stiles is overwhelmed. He cries until he feels he can cry no more. He can see the house he was incarcerated in turning into the burned remains of the abandoned house that he’d been wandering around in, lost in his own mind, weaving himself a great fairytale.

He sees the Argent’s faces fade into the tree barks and the voids that they really were, memories of an age old arson file from very many years ago.

He sees Derek’s face, and Stiles? He holds onto to it _viciously_.

He remembers his kisses, his voice and the sheer warmth of Derek wrapped around him. He remembers their shared laughs and the arguments and the colour of Derek's eyes and his small, private smiles.

Stiles hurts so much, pinpricks of heartbreak burst all over his skin, even as the sleeping poison takes a paralytic hold on him.

And as Stiles thrashes and cries out quietly for Derek, for his love, the good Sheriff holds his dear son near and whispers promises of love into his ear.

Stiles’ convulsions ease fitfully and he teeters over the edge of unconsciousness, feeling like he's finally settled into this reality, he shuts his eyes tightly and buries his head in his father’s chest.

He hears Derek’s voice one last time and then all too soon Derek and Stiles fade into the dust.

-

He still dreams about them sometimes, but that’s all they are: Fables and Fairytales. 

-

**Author's Note:**

> So Stiles has mental disorder which causes him to have a major hallucinatory episode ... or does he?  
> Well .....  
> Also, Oh my god. I am so sorry for posting this. Holy shit. Okay so the ending is kind of horrible, but if you look carefully I have included clues of my own personal headcanon interspersed throughout the story in explanation of what happened, you are welcome to interpret it as you wish. This fic is a free for all, do what you will, cry in a foetal position in the corner, kind of deal.  
> It's inspired by a movie, in which the very same plot twist is present. The film has actually haunted me for years. I love it so damn much, so I decided to fic it. Kind of. Sorta. And then I added in some Sterek sexy times. Oh god.  
> P.s. I am so sorry Stiles, I love you so much really.


End file.
